


An Invincible Winter

by Parnassian



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Gen, Kinda, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Nuclear Winter, Post CA: TWS, Superheroes, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, canon compliant until the tail end of CA: TFA, everyone is angsty but honestly kind of okay in this, stupid hydra
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:57:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6255517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parnassian/pseuds/Parnassian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On January 18th 2015, Project Insight is launched by HYDRA.  Hundreds of thousands of missiles explode all over the world, setting in motion a nuclear winter, widespread displacement, and turmoil.<br/>One missile destroys a scientific base in the arctic, and the resulting inferno thaws Captain America.  Steve Rogers awakes to a world once again at war, and tries to be a hero.<br/>Another missile inadvertently wipes out half a HYDRA base in Ohio, and with the aid of a dying scientist, the Winter Soldier escapes, and tries to be a person.<br/>This is the story of how the two, finally, come together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Out of the Cold

**Author's Note:**

> YO GUYS I'M ALIVE AND SO IS THIS FIC  
> I started writing this when I was at a boring job and then life happened. Now I'm in grad school and desperately need some fun procrastination, so I'm back at it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So it begins!

For James, coming in from the cold was a race. 

Hot air assaulted him as he stepped into the garment room, trapping itself under his layers of clothing.  It pushed at his skin, suffocating him like an oven as he dropped his bags.  He felt feverish and uncomfortable almost immediately, although he knew most people welcomed the heat.

He peeled off his mittens and gloves first to reclaim some dexterity, then unwound the thick woolen scarf from his neck and tugged off his beanie as sweat began to bead on his skin. 

Now he could breathe, at least.

James shed his remaining extra layers at a swift but less frantic pace, looking around the room as he did so.  Davis, the man who’d escorted him here, was calmly unbuttoning his outer coat a few yards away and eyeing James curiously.  James kept his expression blank.

Other men and women got dressed and undressed in various nooks of the large, dim room.  Some sat on wooden stools or benches; some stood.  Most chatted with one another, but the room’s insulation dampened the noise.  Every moment or so, a gust of cooler air would sweep through as people exited and entered from the hallway to the outside.  The sparse fluorescent lights buzzed from the ceiling, casting a pale glow on the room, darkening the shadows under peoples’ eyes, and glinting on the metal of James’s left hand as he finished peeling off the layers.  By the time he’d stripped to a thin, long-sleeved Henley and pants, he could once again feel a faint edge of the cold.

He wasn’t comfortable without it.

He gathered his clothing up and shoved it and his duffle bag in the nearest available locker, clicking his lock into place, and slung his satchel across his chest.  He then turned to Davis, who was neatly folding his outerwear, his snow boots and lighter coat still on.  Irritation prickled under James’s skin at the delay, but he tamped down on it, ignoring the urge to say something.  A few more minutes wouldn’t make any difference.  Not after he’d waited years.

He flexed his left hand, listening to the faint sound of shifting metal and focusing on the sensation.  _Not long now._

“This way,” Davis said, slamming shut his locker.

Davis took the lead, with James trailing half a step behind him.  They wove through the other changing people, exiting the garment room and reaching a large arched entranceway.  There hung a banner that read “1/18 Memorial Marketplace.”  Beyond the banner was the market itself, sprawling and bustling and buzzing with people.  James took a slow breath, preparing himself.  Crowds had been one of the hardest things to get reaccustomed to. 

The high, industrial ceilings acted as an echo chamber with loud clamor and speech filling the warm air.  Tables laden with colorful produce, sleek technologies, and new clothes stretched out for half a mile ahead of them.  Teenagers and older adults shouted advertisements as younger kids ran around and played.  It was Saturday afternoon.  One of the busiest days, but still pretty normal.

As he followed Davis, James once again had to force his breathing to even and his shoulders to relax.  It was hard to not be on edge around so many people, but he knew from experience that unless he calmed the hell down, the people around him were in danger. 

Not the last time he was at a marketplace, but the time before, he’d broken the wrist of a twelve-year-old kid who’d tapped him on the shoulder.  This time, he kept his fists clenched in his pants pockets, his bag strapped tightly to his chest, and his eyes locked on Davis.

About five minutes into the main stretch of market, Davis made a sharp left, leading James to steel elevator doors where four other people waited.  It came down slowly, and when the elevator arrived, about a dozen people exited.  Davis pressed the button for the 43rd floor when they got in— the top floor— before reaching in his pocket for his phone and thumbing a message.

All but one person exited on the fifth floor, and the last person got off on the 17th floor.  When it was just the two of them left, Davis pocketed the phone and asked, “Do you have your payment with you?”

“Yes.  It’s yours as soon as I know you did what I asked you to.”

Davis nodded.  “The best mechanic in the hemisphere.  Or your money back,” he said, smirking slightly.

James’s fingers twitched at the smirk.  He was good at reading people— he had to be— but he got the sense that there was something Davis wasn’t telling him.  Even though he checked and triple checked that Davis was legitimate.

The elevator bell dinged, signaling their arrival, and the doors slid open.  Davis stepped out into the hallway first, and James followed.

“Davey!”  A vaguely familiar-looking dark-haired man popped his head out the first doorway, and the rest of him soon followed.  He wore grease-stained jeans, sneakers, and a knee-length gray coat, and had a manicured goatee.  “Is this the guy?”  He nodded at James.

“Tony Stark, good to see you.” Davis replied.  “It is.  He says he’s got a mechanical challenge for you.  Thought you could take it on.”

_Stark_.  So that’s why he looked familiar.  James inwardly shook his head in wonder.  Best mechanic, indeed.  What were the odds?

“What’s the challenge?”  The man, Tony, asked, turning to James. 

James hiked up his left sleeve, wiggling his fingers to show off the machinery before tugging it down again.  He cocked an eyebrow at Tony wordlessly. 

“Nice.  Shiny,” Tony said.  His tone was conversational, but the glint in his eyes gave away his real interest.  “Tell me more.”

“Are we good here, James?” Davis asked.

James nodded.  “Yeah.  Here.”  He pulled a wrinkled envelope from his satchel and handed it to Davis.

Davis peered inside and grinned.  “Thanks.  Good luck with your arm.”

“Don’t forget to write!” Stark called as the elevator doors shut.  His attention was back on James in an instant, though, eyes locked on the silver digits.

“So, James.  What do you need me to do with your arm, exactly?  Repairs?  Maintenance?  Upgrades?”

James shook his head, allowing himself a grin.  “Removal.”

 

“C’mere,” Tony said, jerking his head towards one of the hallways and starting down it.  As James followed, he said, “I’m gonna need a _lot_ more info before we get started with anything.  Like, a- _lot_ a-lot.  Library-of- _Alexandria_ -a-lot.”  He pulled a metal door open for James, and continued, “Because I’m guessing that thing doesn’t just unscrew.”

James snorted a surprised laugh as he entered the room, and Tony shut the door behind them.  It was clearly some kind of lab, with computer monitors, screwdrivers, wires and snack wrappers strewn on tables.  Tony escorted him to a couch tucked away in a corner of it, where he plopped down on the left end unceremoniously and gestured for James to do the same.

“So… talk,” Tony said, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands.  “I need to know things before I go futzing around with mechanics that were _surgically attached_ to a person.  Start from the start, RoboCop— where’d you get it?”

“eBay,” James retorted, delaying a real answer.  He hadn’t planned on telling the mechanic much.  The mechanic being Tony Stark changed things— if the man was anything like his father, he’d be far too inquisitive to accept a vague cover story. 

“Hah,” Tony said, deadpan.

“Look, Stark,” James began.  “I’ll tell you what I can.”  He paused, staring at the floor and biting his bottom lip, before making a decision.  He extended his arm toward Tony, meeting the other man’s eyes.  “This?  It’s not an arm.  It’s a weapon.  More than that, it’s a labyrinth.  From what I can understand in the diagrams, it’s booby-trapped to hell and back, and if you mess up, it’ll kill you, me, or both of us.”

The curiosity in Tony’s eyes deepened into something more serious.  Straightening, he repeated, “Where did you get it?”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but I don’t know or trust in you enough to tell you.  It’s risky.  I can show you these schematics,” he said, opening his satchel and pulling out a folder, “and I can tell you that it was attached to me without my consent or my knowledge, and it happened a long time ago.  Even that’s saying too much, but I understand that you don’t want to go into this without knowing more.”

Stark eyed the folder.  “Gimme,” he said after a pause.  Flipping through the pages, he took in the blacked-out words and the intricate mechanical diagrams.  Half the pages were yellowed and had Cyrillic text; the rest were white and in handwritten English, translations written in small, precise script.  “You did these?” he asked, nodding towards an English page.

“Yeah, I didn’t want to rely on you knowing the language.”

“Nice handwriting,” Stark said, eyes not leaving the pages.  “You could do Hallmark cards or something.  Hope you’re not a lefty.”  James coughed a surprised laugh.  Stark glanced up at him.  “You sure the translations are completely accurate?”

“Yes,” James said, watching him as he took in the text and diagrams.  After a moment of waiting, he asked “Is this something you can do?”

“Yes.  Well, most of it, yeah.  I’ll need a surgeon, if you want that thing _off_ off, down to the bone anchors, but yeah.  You want it all the way off?”  James nodded.  “Easy peasy.  Well technically, extraordinarily complicated and life-threateningly risky for anyone who’s not me to even think about, but I’m the best.  So yeah, easy peasy.” 

James exhaled.

Tony paused, closing the folder. “A better question,” he continued slowly, meeting James’s eyes and raising an eyebrow, “Is if it’s something I’d be _willing_ to do.”

James stiffened.  To his own ears, his heartbeat sounded louder than it had any right to.  Swallowing, his mouth suddenly bone-dry, he met Tony’s eye and asked, “Are you willing?  I can pay handsomely.”

He figured some mechanics would be unwilling.  The job was shady as hell, and James really wasn’t offering much in the way of reasons to be trusted.  But this was _Stark_ , and James now got the feeling that asking anyone else to do the job would end in failure.

Tony’s eyes searched his face for an excruciatingly long minute.  James’s stomach clenched, but he tried to keep his composure, holding the other man’s gaze despite his discomfort.  Then—

“Come back tomorrow, nine o’clock.  I need to ask my surgeon buddy.” 

James let out a breath.  It was better than a no.  “Sure.  I can leave the folder with you, if you want.  I just have to ask that you keep this private.  Aside from the surgeon.  I…  if the wrong person sees those documents, or hears about me, it could be bad.”

“Understood.  You got a place to stay in the area?”

“No, but I’ll find one.”  James rose.  “Thank you, Mr. Stark.”

“Mr. Stark was my dad.  Call me Tony.  Or Stark.  Or Iron Man.  That’d be cool, if a bit dramatic.”

“Alright, Iron Man.”  The corner of his mouth quirked.  “I’m James, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stark’s attention was already back to the diagrams.  “Ciao,” he said distractedly.  “Tomorrow, nine.” 


	2. Into the Wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it!

James got a room at a run-down motel about half a mile out of the marketplace, with his belongings and a takeaway dinner in hand.  The heating hardly worked and the closet in his room was bursting with comforters that didn’t look recently washed, but he hardly paid attention.  He wanted to shower, to clear his head. 

Icy needles of water drilled at his skin.  The lemon-scented soap crumbled in his hands as he tried to clean himself.  As he shampooed his hair, digging his fingers into his scalp, he started to sing quietly.  It was an old Billie Holiday song, one he vaguely remembered slow-dancing to before. 

His voice was rough at first, the notes imprecise and the words half-forgotten, but after the first verse, it came more easily. Verses he thought he’d forgotten came out like muscle memory, filling the gray windowless bathroom.  His body relaxed under the cold spray.

It had taken two years for him to remember how to sing.  At first, even talking had been difficult.  Words got lodged in his throat, coming out haltingly, if at all.  Long pauses punctuated his speech.  Sometimes, he’d forget an English word, remembering it in six or seven languages but not the appropriate one.  Getting back his voice, like everything else, had taken time.

He shut off the water when he finished the song.  After drying off and wrapping a towel around his waist, he pulled open the bathroom door and stepped into the main room.

“I didn’t know you could sing.”

He froze. 

“And Billie Holiday…” continued the redhead perched on the edge of the bed.  The woman wore a black pea-coat, dark jeans, and gloves, and he could make out the slight bulges of two handguns and countless knives sheathed under her clothing.  When he met her eyes, he knew her. 

“Nice choice,” she went on.  “Pretty ancient, but good.  Guess you weren’t feeling Taylor Swift?”

He exhaled. 

“I have trouble relating to her songs,” he said.  He eyed his satchel, resting beside her on the bed, and tensed again.  “Why are you here, Black Widow?”

“Natasha,” she corrected, eyeing him critically.  Her eyes lingered on the scarring on his left shoulder before she continued.  “And what am I supposed to call you?  ‘Winter Soldier’ is a little too formal—“

“—And it’s not me anymore,” he interrupted, shaking his head.  “I’m James.  Nice to meet you.”  He swept past her to grab the satchel, and shoved it into his duffle bag.  “Hate to be rude, but if this is going to be a full conversation, I’m getting dressed,” he said curtly.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

He retreated to the bathroom to change, not bothering to turn the flimsy lock shut behind him.  It wouldn’t protect anything but his modesty in the event that the Black Widow attacked him, and he didn’t think she would. 

They both knew he was too dangerous for her to take him out up close.  For some reason, she wanted to talk.  So he’d talk.

Before going back out to face her, he wiped at the condensation in the mirror, scanning his reflection.  His hair was longer than it had ever been when he was just Bucky Barnes, but shorter than they’d kept it when he was the soldier.  It fell in damp, messy waves, strands clinging to his forehead and jaw.  He rubbed his towel to it, then finger-combed it out of his face.  He blinked at the reflection that was slowly starting to feel like his own, took a breath, and left the bathroom.

Natasha hadn’t moved. 

“Why are you here?” he asked her, taking a seat at the small table across the room.  “Did Stark send you?  I know you and Iron Man have worked together a lot recently.”

“Funny enough, I was going to ask you the same question.”

“If Stark sent me?”

She gave him a look.  “Why you’re here.  Why does the Winter Soldier, former Hydra assassin, approach Tony Stark, _known enemy_ of Hydra, and ask him to remove his metal arm?”

“Why didn’t Stark just ask me that, instead of sending you here to do it in person?”

“Look…”  She uncrossed her legs, leaning forward.  “He wasn’t sure.  He asked me who you were, and I told him what I knew.  The stories about you.  That you hadn’t been seen since the Hydra attacks.  That you’d put a bullet in me, a few years back.  You still haven’t apologized for that, by the way.”

“For shooting at you?  You shot at me, too.  The only difference is that you missed.”  James smiled crookedly, and continued.  “I’m not going to apologize for that.  I didn’t have a choice.  And if it’s any consolation, I won’t shoot you again.  I’m not a threat to you or to Stark.” 

“Not even if we get in your way?” 

He laughed humorlessly.  “In my way of what?  Look, Natasha.  You came here for answers?  I’ll give you one.   The only thing you could possibly get in the way of is my retirement.  I’m done.  That’s why I want the arm off.  I’m decommissioning myself.”

“Decommissioning,” she repeated flatly.

“I’m done being a weapon.  You’ve seen what I’m capable of, and it’s over.”

“So… what?  Cut off your arm and become a real boy again?”

“That’s the gist of it.”

“Why Stark?”

“Dumb luck,” he admitted.  “I was asking around, trying to find a skilled mechanic, and I found a guy who led me straight to him.”

“That is dumb luck.”

His lips quirked.  “Like I said.  I’m not out to get him.”

Natasha shot him an unreadable look.  After a pause, she asked, “How did you get out?”

“Of Hydra?” 

She gave a nod. 

“Also dumb luck,” he said, smiling faintly.  The smile fell away.  “Day of the attacks.  I don’t know how much you know about the plan for Project Insight, but a lot of the calculations were off.  Way off.  They had me at a base in Ohio, just outside of Columbus, when the missiles were fired.  One hit the base.  Someone helped me out.  I left.”

After a pause, Natasha pointed out, “There’s a lot there you’re not telling me.”

“There’s also a lot that I _am_ telling,” he countered.  “I don’t know much about you, Natasha.  I told you everything I have because I want Stark’s help, and to get his help I need his trust.  Also because you might have a better idea than most people about who I am right now.”  He looked at her pointedly.

“Right,” she said, her tone betraying nothing.  “Just tell me one more thing, before I go.”

“What is it?”

“Your full name.”

He didn’t speak immediately.  The pros and cons of honesty cycled through his head for a beat.  Finally, he answered. 

“James Barnes.”

The expression on her face shifted, but to what, he couldn’t tell.  She stood, starting for the door.  “Stark will be in touch.”  She turned back, meeting his eyes.  “I might be, too.”  Then she was gone.

 

 

He got the call at 11:37, from an unknown number.

Stark was still on for nine, and he wanted to meet at the newly-reconstructed Stark Tower this time.  He was still willing to help, and so was the surgeon.

Too wired to sleep, James pulled on leggings, a hoodie, a beanie and sweats, locked the motel room door behind him, and took a run.

His feet slammed the pavement, propelling him away from the seedy motel.  The dim streetlamps caught the fog of his breath.  The buildings on the streets were more unfamiliar than not, but New York was still New York.  Bone-deep, he knew this place.  The air filling his lungs smelled of smoke, Chinese food, and cold.

There were a handful of people still out despite the sub-zero temperature and the lateness of the hour, and he wove past them, keeping his head down.  They shuffled down the sidewalks with their hands stuffed in pockets, talking quietly, or loudly, or drunkenly.  The words were different and so were the clothes, but he knew this, too.  The people and their lives were reflections of the life he used to have.

He felt a pang of _wanting._ His old life— torn away.  The people he loved— long dead.  The person he used to be— scarred beyond recognition.  He’d never have those things again.  But just maybe…

Maybe he could be a person again.

Maybe he could stop being alone.

Without realizing it, he’d slowed to a jog.  It was cold enough that his toes were numbing inside his shoes, so James picked up the pace, putting away his thoughts. He sprinted past pedestrians, and when he could, he veered away from the sparse crowds, taking alleys and narrower streets to avoid them. 

The fewer the people he saw, the more of the city he could see.  Graffiti-stained facades, garbage-strewn gutters.  The rare soft shadow in a doorway of a homeless person trying to sleep, despite the extreme danger of the cold.  A motorcycle shuttling past.  Dark, barred storefronts.  Here and there, rubble.  Gaps in the buildings, like missing teeth.  Remnants of the attacks, like scars, still unhealed three years later.

Eventually, he found an inner-city park.  Wrapped in chain-link fencing, it was little more than a patch of grass, an overflowing trashcan and two end-to-end basketball courts with no nets on the hoops.  He scaled the fence and started running laps around the perimeter. 

The pocket of the city was empty, so he let loose.  His feet flew and the dark grass and concrete beneath him blurred.  His troubled thoughts couldn’t keep the pace— they were a yard behind him, and losing ground, fast.  He could hear his own heartbeat, strong and quick.  Bitterly cold wind howled past his ears, but he ran hot, always had, and it felt good on his skin.

Just this _:_ his body cutting through the darkness and the cold.

It felt _great_.

He didn’t stop sprinting until his mind felt clear.  When it did, he jogged back to the motel through streets that were nearly deserted.  It was nearly 4 by the time he got back, so he rinsed off again and got into bed.  Sleep came fast and fitful, dreams churning with twisted memories and weird connections. 

He half-woke an hour later, squinting into the darkness of the motel room as the dream fell through his fingers like sand.  He blearily rolled over and waited to fall asleep again. 

It came slow, the second time around.  Like getting lost in the woods.

He didn’t find his way back until morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading an earnest nerd's attempt at writing a good story. Kudos. Comment. Feed me.


	3. Out of Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens (I added cornstarch).

James took the elevator up to Stark at five minutes to nine.  He’d arrived at the tower twenty minutes earlier and had been standing outside the lobby for the last fifteen, waiting so that he wouldn’t be so early.  From the outside, it looked spacious and unforgivingly tidy; from the inside, even more so.  With his fraying coat and a big duffle bag slung over his shoulder, the receptionist gave him a wary look, but when he gave his name she let him up. 

Stark had called last night to say yes, he still wanted to help.  But he’d been brusque, not chatty like he’d been earlier.  James was worried his help would be conditional, and he would be in no position to argue with the other man’s demands.

The recent experience of having to _rely_ on people.  It made his skin itch.  Since escaping Hydra, he hadn’t allowed people to have that kind of power over him. 

Hell, he even cut his own _hair_.  But he wanted this, and he wanted it badly enough to put his trust in another person.  All he could do is hope it would turn out okay.  That, and plan for the worst.

 

When the elevator doors opened, Stark was waiting with his arms crossed, wearing the same coat as the day before.  “Howdy.”

“Morning,” James said, awkwardly, hand on the strap of his duffle.  “Thanks for seeing me, despite everything.”

“No biggie,” Tony said.  “Some of my best friends are former assassins.”  Despite his casual tone, James heard an edge to his words, and he wondered how the other man really felt. 

“Either way, I appreciate it,” he said, meeting Tony’s eyes.  “You’ve got no idea.”

There was an uncomfortable beat of silence.

“Anyone ever tell you you look a lot like Bucky Barnes?”  Tony finally asked, a non-sequitor.  “Are you related?”

James shrugged, keeping his expression blank.  “Barnes is a pretty common name.”

Tony watched him a moment, cocking his head slightly.  Then he shrugged, too, turning on his heel and starting down the hall.  “C’mere,” he said over his shoulder.  “I need coffee before we discuss stuff.”

After a couple of turns down near-identical hallways, Tony opened a door, guiding them both into a small break room.  Like the rest of the floor James had seen, it was sleek and state-of-the-art, with a fridge, a round table, and a coffee machine that had more buttons on it than a cockpit.  Tony went straight for it, pressing things until it started gurgling.  The aroma of coffee soon followed, filling the small room.

“You want some?” he asked.  James shook his head.  Glancing at Stark, he set his bags in the corner, waiting until the other man was finished making his coffee before following him to the table.

Cradling an overlarge mug of coffee in front of him, Stark glanced at him, took a big swig of coffee, then cleared his throat.

“So, James, like I said,” he began.  “I still am willing to help you with this.  I like a challenge.  I also think it must be really shitty, to have something attached to you that you don’t want to be there, and I want to help.”  He fiddled with the handle of his mug.  “Anyway.  Let’s talk terms and payment.” 

He paused, taking another gulp of coffee.  When he continued, his tone was all business. 

“I found you a surgeon, a former SHIELD employee.  One of the ones who _wasn’t_ secretly Hydra all along, which is why I invited her to work for SI.  She’s trustworthy and brilliant, if I do say so myself.  Top of her class and all that jazz.  She wants $8,000 in cash, and she needs you to agree to share her involvement with no one.  She also asked that I don’t share her name with you, but I can vouch for her.  Do you agree to that?”

A beat, and then James nodded.  “Fine.  I’ll pay half upfront and half after the procedure’s done successfully, alright?”  It wouldn’t really make much of a difference to him financially if the procedure failed and he died, but he wanted the surgeon to have some incentive to do a good job.

“That’s fine.  I’ll let her know.”  Tony dug his phone out of his pocket and fired off a quick text before putting it away.  He took another long pull of coffee, and James noticed the dark shadows under the other man’s eyes.  He briefly wondered what kept billionaires up at night, then blinked, realizing he knew next to nothing about Tony Stark. 

“Okay, good.  That was the easy condition,” Tony continued, throwing James an assessing look.  “My ‘payment,’ per se, is a little more involved.”

“…Okay.  What is it?”

“I want information, mostly.  Two kinds.  First off, I want you to answer some of my questions about Hydra.  Locations of bases, chain of command, the works.”  He set down his mug, giving James a probing look, and went on.  “To clarify, my goal is to take _down_ Hydra, but they’ve been quiet.  Hard to find.  If you’re not one of theirs anymore, prove it.” 

James shifted in his seat, and said slowly, “I’m the reason they’ve been hard to find.  I’ve spent the last two and a half years taking Hydra apart, piece by piece.  As far as I know, there’s nothing left, but I’ll tell you anything you want to know.  If you find anything I missed, or anything that’s sprung up since, I’d be grateful if you dealt with it.”

“For real?  Wow.  Very Terminator of you, I’m impressed.  Just to be safe, you mind if I verify some of that info?”

James shrugged.  “I’ll give you whatever you need.  Some now, as an act of faith, and some after, because it’ll take a while to tell you everything.”

“Sweet.  You know, as far as reformed super-assassins go, you are _super_ agreeable,” Stark said, raising his eyebrows.

That startled a laugh out of James.  “Thanks,” he said wryly.

“I’ve got one last condition for you, though.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to check in with me at least once every two weeks.  Phone, text, Skype, Twitter, whatever, but I want to hear from you.”

James frowned.  “You want to keep tabs on me?”

“Yup.  Just tell me how you’re doing, what you’ve been up to, stuff like that.  You don’t have to tell me your location or anything.”  As if Stark would need coordinates to trace a cell phone signal.

“Oh.”  It dawned on him that Stark wanted to monitor him to make sure he wasn’t hurting anyone, and he _got_ it, he did.  He even respected Tony for asking outright, rather than finding some other way to keep track of him.  Iron Man was something like a superhero, and he probably felt obligated to making sure James, a former assassin who he’d agreed to _help_ , actually did retire.

“Are you willing?” Tony asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Yeah.  Sure,” James said, shrugging.  “But I have to warn you…” he trailed off.

“Oh?”

“I’m awful at long-distance relationships.”

Tony cackled.  “With a sense of humor like that, James, I think we can make it work.

 

The surgeon wouldn’t arrive for consultation until two, so they moved over to Stark’s lab, going over schematics and giving the arm’s wiring a preliminary hands-on inspection.  As Tony worked, James recited the locations and dates of the latest Hydra bases he’d shut down.  JARVIS, Tony’s artificial intelligence that apparently ran the entire lab, verified James’s info, confirming the successful shut-downs.  James couldn’t help but jump, the first time he heard the disembodied voice, but the surprise soon melted into amazement.

While James was still a _little_ bitter about the absence of flying cars in the future that Tony’s father once promised, most other aspects of technology had progressed far beyond his wildest imaginings, and Tony’s lab was evidence of it.  The lab he’d been in the previous day, Tony explained, was for his side projects— an interim lab he’d used during the tower’s reconstruction.  He still used it when he was meeting people he didn’t trust, to prevent potential unfriendlies from seeing the full extent of Tony’s genius.  Stark’s words, not his, but he couldn’t help but agree.

But if the first lab had looked cutting-edge, this one looked positively futuristic, in no small part due to JARVIS.  2050’s futuristic, not the present-day that James still couldn’t help but think of as the future.  Loud rock music blared in the background.  There were touchscreens everywhere, some suspended from the ceiling and some mounted on walls.  All were glass and completely transparent, giving the illusion of information hanging in space.  Holograms of diagrams and schematics hovered in the empty spaces.

Small machines (robots?) with long metal hand-like claws sat between tables, and occasionally darted around on wheels across the lab.  Bizarrely, at one point, one of them tried to hand Tony a balloon.

When Tony noticed James’s fascination with his technology, the engineer’s eyes lit up and he practically dragged the other man to a scanner in a corner of the lab.  Not thirty seconds later, holographic projections of the inner workings of the cybernetic arm and the attachments at his shoulder surrounded them, responding to every flick of Tony’s wrist to show the different dimensions and components. 

James could feel his own mouth hanging open, but he didn’t bother trying to keep his expression straight. 

Science fiction could _keep_ the flying cars.

“Wanna try?” Tony asked, dragging over a rendering of the arm until it was right in front of them, at eye-level.

“Do I just… touch it?” 

“Touch and drag if you want to change the perspective, pinch if you want to zoom out, spread your fingers apart if you want to zoom in,” Tony instructed, demonstrating each hand movement.

James tentatively reached out with his flesh hand, letting his fingers brush the light of the image.  He felt faint electric buzzing on his fingertips.  He gently moved his fingers rightward, keeping them touching the hologram.  Like magic, the view of the arm swiveled to the right in time with his hand movement. 

He copied Tony’s gesture to make it zoom in, and the outer plating of the holographic arm vanished, showing an expanded view of the wirings beneath.  Like veins, cables and thick wires ran the length of it, dancing around metal encasings and connecting everything, from the fingertips to the port at the shoulder.  As he zoomed in further, the covers to the smaller metal encasings vanished as well, making visible gears, circuitry, and sensors.  Every piece was precisely fitted into the next, leaving no room for error or excess.  They’d never left him conscious during maintenance, so it was the first time James was seeing any of this outside of diagrams.  His gaze dropped to his actual left arm and he flexed the fingers, trying to wrap his head around all the technology making such a simple movement possible.

James’s thoughts turned to the genius of his arm’s creators.  He wondered how great the world would look if all the brilliant people in the world were also all _good_ people, instead of a mixed bag.  All this incredible engineering, wasted on peddling death.  Blood caked on shiny metal digits.

“Having second thoughts?” Tony asked, mistaking James’s silence for a change of heart.

He shook his head, gaze lingering on his arm for another moment before looking up at Tony.  “No, none.  I had an idea, though,” he began, haltingly.  “I don’t know how you feel about it.  But I was thinking, if you can use any of this tech to advance ordinary prosthetics, you should.”  All of Stark’s attention was on him, so he forged ahead. 

“If Stark Industries doesn’t do stuff like that, maybe pass along some of the better ideas to somebody who does.  From what I’ve seen, the prosthetic limbs currently out there are nowhere near as advanced.  Putting an arm like this on a killer is one thing, but on a doctor, or a parent?  I… I think it could turn into a good thing, you know?”

Stark was nodding.  “I was thinking about asking you something along those lines, but I wasn’t sure how you’d react.  I’m up for it.  More than up for it.  The biggest difficulty would be bypassing the, sorry, _incredibly_ destructive surgical attachment process.  For real, what did they use, a hacksaw?  It’s a miracle it even works, considering the permanent nerve damage.  You’re enhanced though, right?”  At James’s confused look, he clarified.  “Advanced healing factor, enhanced resilience, something like that?”

James shrugged uncomfortably.  “I guess.  Yeah.”

Tony looked at him, considering.  “We’ll have to tell the surgeon, ‘cause that might affect anesthetic dosage and stuff.  But anyway, the reason I asked was that my guess is that no ordinary person could’ve survived the attachment procedure.  I’ve seen hackjob surgeries.  Hell, I _had_ one, but yours was done really badly.”  James recalled reading about the birth of Iron Man, and his expression shifted in sympathy.  Stark plowed on. 

“Since this is Stark Industries instead of the _Stone Age,_ we’d totally be capable of making something better.  Even things that won’t need surgery to attach, though of course the fine motor control’d probably suffer a little without surgical nerve access. We’d just need to—”

“—Pardon me, Sir,” JARVIS interrupted.  “Hawkeye is attempting to reach you.  He appears to be in distress.  Shall you take the call in private?”

Tony blinked.  “Sorry.  Yeah, put me through, JARVIS,” he said, pulling out his phone.  “James?  I need to take this.  You good here?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” said James, frowning.  Tony swept past him, leaving James alone in the lab. 

Hawkeye— James’d heard of him.  He was a skilled archer known to associate with Iron Man and Black Widow.  The three had fought together when the aliens attacked some years earlier in the so-called Battle of New York.  James still hardly believed aliens were real.  He couldn’t remember where he’d been that day.  Maybe in cryo.  It all blurred together.

He’d also seen some of Hawkeye’s handiwork, though never live and in-person.  A few times, when he’d gone into Hydra bases to shut them down, they’d already been destroyed before he got there.  And instead of bullet-holes in the corpses, there were arrow shafts sticking out of them.  James didn’t know the archer’s motivation for targeting Hydra bases, but he appreciated it.  Less work for him.

He started pacing around the lab as he waited for Stark to return, returning to the hologram at one point and messing around with it a little.  There was a “muscle” in his wrist that had been getting stuck lately, and he was trying to figure out the cause of it when the hologram abruptly vanished.

“Mr. Barnes,” said JARVIS.  “Master Stark has asked me to escort you to a room down the hall.  I will guide you.  Please leave your belongings here and take the exit on your left.”

“…Okay.”  James slowly walked to the door, leaving his bags in the lab.  He got the strong suspicion something was wrong, and every step closer to the door he took magnified that feeling.  “Why’s he asking me to go, JARVIS?”

“Apologies, Mr. Barnes, but I am not able to share that information with you at this time.”

James tensed.  He really didn’t want to betray Tony’s barely-there trust, but something was really wrong here.  Keeping his voice level, he asked, “And what happens if I stay here?”

“You will be seen as a threat to Stark Industries, and forcibly removed from the premises.”

James squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath.  It was a trap.  But he could handle it, right?  Tony Stark was many things, one of them being extremely, vocally anti-Hydra.  Whatever this was, as long as he wasn’t going back, he could handle it.

He pushed open the door.

“Thank you for your compliance.  Please turn too your right, Mr. Barnes.”

The voice of JARVIS guided him down three hallways to a nondescript steel doorway that slid open automatically.  It likely wasn’t something he’d be able to force his way out of unaided. 

It also wasn’t a room; it was a cell.  The sparse furniture— a couple of chairs and a small table— was bolted to the floor.  As the door closed behind him, James tensed involuntarily.

 _This isn’t Hydra,_ he tried to convince himself.  _I’m not going back._

But if it was?

Staring at the wall opposite him, he clenched his fists.

If it was Hydra, he’d do what they programmed him to do.

He’d fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with this!


	4. To Daybreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Herein, a wild Steve appears.

In the darkness of the apartment, scuffing could be heard.  The metallic clacking of a key missing the lock, then sliding in.  A hard shove against the door, and another.  The click of the lock mechanism sliding open.  The twist of the doorknob. 

It wasn’t until the glass shattered that Steve awoke. 

Plunging into consciousness and out of the nightmare he’d been having, he acted instinctually, grabbing the pistol under his pillow, rising, and aiming it at the doorway in one fluid movement.  As he pinned his eyes to the crack of moonlight behind the door, his ears strained to hear anything over the intrusive pounding of his own heartbeat. 

Another thump, and a following whisper that sounded like a muffled curse.  From the kitchen, he guessed.  Keeping the gun steadily trained ahead, Steve padded across the bedroom, pausing by the door for an agonizing minute before slipping silently into the hallway.  Pressing his back to the wall, he snuck a look around the corner, where he could just make out a man slumped against his kitchen counter. 

Steve had the gun leveled at the intruder until a strip of moonlight from a gap in the blinds caught in the man’s blond hair.

“Clint?” Steve asked, not lowering the gun.

The man startled, his whole body tensing, and then said, “Steve?”

“Yeah, Clint,” Steve said, finally lowering the pistol.  “It’s Steve.  What’re you doing in my apartment?”  He asked the darkness, then added, “Mind if I turn on the light?”

Clint’s silhouette shrugged, then recoiled.  “Ow.  Yeah, turn on the light.  I didn’t think you’d be home yet.”  His voice sounded a little off, as if he had a cold, and Steve wondered about that, as well as why Clint hadn’t thought he’d be home yet.  It was really, _really_ late.

Steve flicked the switch, illuminating the little kitchen with a pale yellow light to reveal his friend and landlord, decked out in full combat gear, in his kitchen.  Clint was in sorry shape, sporting a broken nose that was starting to swell, symmetrical black eyes, cuts and bruises, and a look of exhaustion so deep it made Steve wish humans could hibernate, if only for Clint’s sake.

“What happened?” he asked, fighting to keep the worry out of his voice.  “You look like hell,” he added unnecessarily.

“Hydra happened,” Clint winced.  “Again.”

Steve froze.  Then his hands curled into fists.  “I thought Hydra was finished.”

“Me too.”

“Shit.” Steve cursed, then a sigh escaped his lips.  Maybe Clint’s exhaustion was contagious.  He went over to the fridge and dug out a bag of frozen peas, wrapping it in a dish towel, handing it to the other man, and asking, “Do you think you were followed here?”

Clint hung his head, gently pressing the bag of peas to his nose.  “Maybe.  Yeah.  I dunno.  I was careful I wasn’t being tailed, but my ownership of this building’s public record.  I thought being up here at your place might give me a couple more minutes to put together a defense.”  His bow was on the counter beside him and a quiver was still strapped across his back. 

“How long until they’re here?”

“Fifteen, twenty minutes is my guess,” Clint said quietly.  “Sorry, Steve.  I didn’t mean to get you involved.  I hoped you wouldn’t be home.”

Steve put his hand on Clint’s shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture.  “I’m glad I’m involved, but we should move somewhere safer.  You’re not really in fighting shape right now, and we can’t risk endangering your tenants.  If you know of any safe houses, or if you have any friends…”

“That makes sense,” Clint admitted dejectedly.  “I’ll try to find a place.  Can I borrow your phone?”

Steve left Clint with the peas on his nose and his phone to his ear, ducking into his bedroom to change.  His alarm clock’s glowing numbers read 4:12 a.m. and the expression ‘ _the dead of night’_ came to Steve’s mind, but he shook away the thought.  Pessimism didn’t help anyone; action did.  He pulled on his work clothes: thermal leggings under fraying jeans, a thick sweatshirt under a jacket, sturdy boots and a knit cap.  He tucked the pistol into his waistband and went to the closet, reaching behind his shirts until his fingers touched cool metal.

In the 70-plus years since he crashed the Valkyrie into the arctic, out of everything and everyone he’d seen, his shield was the most unchanged.  The red, blue and white paint was chipped in places and the straps on its reverse had been replaced, but its look and heft were unmistakable.  Strapping it to his arm, he felt a rush of emotion which he immediately tamped down on.  Clint was in danger.  They both were.  He’d have time for nostalgia later.

_(Don’t even get him started on the ‘nostalgia’ of fighting Hydra.)_

Clint was on the couch staring holes into the threadbare carpet, the peas still pressed to his nose.  “I’ve got a safe house we can use, if we can take your bike,” he said, blinking up at Steve.  He then did a double-take.  “Wait.  You’re taking your Captain America shield?”

“I’m a better fighter when I use it,” Steve said, “and it’s hardly secret anymore.  The higher-ups at SHIELD knew who I was, so Hydra knows.  If whatever’s left of Hydra’s after you, I’d bet anything they’re going after me next.”

“Yeah, but are you sure you want to take your stand now, Steve?”

Steve shrugged, feigning nonchalance.  “Why wait?”

Clint watched him for a second around the frozen peas, then sighed.  “Alright.  Nat would probably say this is a bad idea, but she’s not here, and I’m sure as heck not gonna be the voice of reason here.”

“Sure as heck?” Steve asked, suddenly finding himself struggling not to laugh at the inoffensive language.

“How am I supposed to know what offends your 1940s sensibilities?” Clint asked with mock indignation, slowly rising to his feet.  It was a running joke between them— two years of living as neighbors following half a year of working together ensured Clint knew full well what things offended Steve— and what didn’t. 

“I was in the _army_ , Clint.”

“Yeah, but that was before they invented swear words,” Clint shot back, grabbing his bow from the counter.

Steve snorted a laugh, flicking off the lights and locking his door behind them. 

 

They reached the safe house about an hour later.  It was near Montauk, a small apartment over a boarded-up laundromat by the coast.  Steve hid his motorcycle in the bushes behind the lot.  The building was one of the last in a stretch of a small dark downtown street, and it was quiet.  The soft static noise of the ocean replaced the ever-present thrum of city life Steve and Clint were accustomed to.  In a way, it was calming, but the stillness also set Steve’s teeth on edge.  Like a calm before a storm.

They kept the lights off.  They did a walkthrough, surveying the small rooms for potential threats and supplies, and found nothing amiss.  The apartment was little, but not shoebox-small, with just one bedroom, a kitchen, a living room and a bathroom.  The sparse décor looked old— about as old as Steve— and was covered in about an inch of dust.

When everything proved to be safe and serviceable, Clint let himself fall onto the dusty couch, wincing when he landed on some bruises.

“Ow.”

“I’ll get the first-aid kit.”

“Thanks.”

Hawkeye or not, in the darkness Steve had better vision, so despite Clint’s protests that he could do it himself it was Steve who patched him up.  Most unexposed parts of Clint’s skin were either bruised, cut, scraped or some combination of the three.  There were a couple of gashes even under his body armor that were bleeding sluggishly.  Some probably needed a few stitches, but none needed them badly enough that Steve would risk doing it in the dark, so he made do with butterfly bandages.  Clint took his coat off so Steve could reach those cuts, and he was shivering.  At least Steve had warm hands.

 

“So… how’d it happen?”  Steve asked, breaking the silence.  He kept his voice down, despite the apartment being isolated from the surrounding buildings.  Something about the darkness and the sound of the waves made him want to whisper.

Clint sighed.  “I had a dentist appointment this afternoon, you know?” He began, matching Steve’s volume.  “Well, yesterday afternoon, technically.  Four of ‘em ambushed me on my way out the building, which, I guess if you think about it was kind of nice of them for waiting.  At least they didn’t do it while I had pointy things inside my mouth.  Anyway.  I recognized one of them, a girl named Steph Walters, from SHIELD.  Thought she was nice.  Guess I was wrong.”  He half-shrugged, stopping the gesture midway when he remembered Steve was still patching him up.  “Sorry.”

“No problem.”

“I let them cuff me and pull me into their van because I wanted to figure out where the base was.  And it worked, I’ve got a location.  The exit strategy was just less smooth than I hoped.”

“So they didn’t try to kill you?  Just to capture you?”

“Yeah, it sounded like a couple of the higher-ups wanted to try to _persuade_ me—” Clint used air-quotes in the darkness “—to join Hydra.  Someone also mentioned wiping me, and I’m guessing they were talking mind wipes, and not baby wipes.”

Steve didn’t know what baby wipes were, but he could hazard guess at what the mind wipe part meant.  “Hydra’s capable of erasing people’s minds?” he asked incredulously.

“Looks like.  I guess they wanted to check another box off of their ‘Things Evil People Do’ list,” Clint said.  His tone was controlled, though, like it was something he really didn’t feel like joking about. 

“I thought, after they’d been exposed…”  Steve trailed off, not wanting to share the extent of his naiveté. 

“No— Me too, I mean,” Clint said, fumbling to reassure him.  “We all thought they’d be gone.  After all the bases that we shut down, and all the bases that had been shut down before we got there.  You and I both know we haven’t seen any signs of life from them in months.  It sucks.”

There was a long pause.  Without the sounds of their hushed voices, the darkness seemed to thicken.

“It makes you wonder,” Steve began slowly, turning a roll of bandages in his hands.  “How deep the cancer of Hydra goes.  After all these years, for them to still be around…  Hydra was in SHIELD.  They were in the American government, among others.  I feel stupid for thinking they might actually be gone.”  His fingers tightened around the bandage roll. 

“You shouldn’t feel dumb.  We all thought the same.  We’re gonna let this blow over, rally the troops, raid the base and use that intel to end it once and for all, okay?  And by rally the troops, I mean call Nat again.  This safe house is one of hers, so she knows something’s up, but I didn’t have time to explain more.”

There was a long pause.  Clint put his coat back on.  The waves crashed the shore outside the window.  Finally, Steve nodded.  “Yeah, okay.  Hey, you got any cuts or scrapes on your legs?”

“Yes, Nurse Rogers,” Clint said, rolling his eyes in the darkness.  “A cut, it feels like, on my left calf.”

Steve reached down to tug up the fabric of Clint’s pant leg when he felt a small object on the cloth.  He moved his fingers over it, feeling for what it was.  It was hard and smaller than a dime, and the placement was wrong for a button or rivet.  Eyes narrowing in suspicion, he gave it a tug and it peeled off the fabric. 

Outside the curtains, the world was just beginning to grow lighter.  In the faint dawn glow, half-obscured by the shadows of his fingers, Steve could just make it out, small and silver  and sinister.

A tracker.

“Aw, fuck,” Clint breathed, seeing it too.  “Oh, fuck me.”  He ran his hands over the rest of his clothing, trying to find any more.  He found two more, one on his ankle and one on his back.

“Clint, we have to move.  _Now_.”  Steve was already shoving the supplies back into the first-aid kit, collecting the wipes that had Clint’s blood on them and shoving them into his pocket. 

Out here in the open, outside of the city, Hydra wouldn’t hold back in their attack, and Steve didn’t feel prepared to face them.  He’d spent months he spent at SHIELD crash-coursing through the history he’d missed.  After SHIELD’s collapse, he’d even accompanied Clint and Natasha on a couple of Hydra-destroying missions.  But despite that, he knew little about 21st century weaponry, and not knowing his enemies’ capabilities put him at a huge disadvantage in a fight.  If it were just him on his own, Steve wouldn’t hesitate to throw his life on the line and take a swing at Hydra, prepared or not.  But he wasn’t willing to endanger Clint further, not when his friend was injured.

“Nat’s gonna kill me,” Clint said, rolling down his pant leg and putting his beanie back on. 

“Not if Hydra kills you first,” Steve replied.  He took his bag, shoving inside the first-aid kit.  Slinging it over his shoulder, he picked up his shield.  “You good to go?”

“How’s mediocre-to-go sound?” Clint grumbled, grabbing his bow and heading to the door.  “Stupid Hydra.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed.  “Stupid Hydra.”

Clint limped slightly on his way down the stairs and Steve kept pace with him.  “Do you have another place we can go?” Steve asked.

“Nat just had this place nearby.  There’s Stark Tower, I guess.  If you’re willing, I mean.  D’you want Tony Stark finding out Captain America’s still alive?” 

“I can handle it.”

“Alright, man.  If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.”

 

Throwing the trackers into the ocean on their way out, they left the coast behind them as morning came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy cow dudes, I haven't written this many words in a row for over two years?? Yikes. But look at me go!
> 
> My only hope is that the words are actually good :)


	5. In the Tallest Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's coming together! Kind of! Almost! Maybe!

Stark Tower was tremendous.

It was also really ugly. 

Steve bit his tongue as he walked alongside Clint, keeping the observation to himself, but he couldn’t help thinking it. 

When he’d first come back, seeing New York for the first time in the better part of a century had been difficult for him.  He’d gotten back to the States about three months after the attacks, when rubble and fresh scarring and new construction marred about an eighth of the city.  The rest had looked stunningly modern; skyscrapers were a dime a dozen, all glass-faced and glittering.  Every road was paved, though the streets held so many cars he could hardly see the paving.

He could see his old city in little glimpses— familiar intersections, despite the different look of the streets, and some unchanged edifices.  But the city was undeniably and greatly changed.  Even now, over two and a half years after seeing them for the first time, he couldn’t help resenting some of the more modern additions to the city.

Additions like Stark Tower.

As Steve followed, carrying his wrapped up shield under one arm, Clint made for the rear of the tower.  They circled past the small courtyard that surrounded it, walking fast in the cold, quiet air.  In the bright sunlight, the outside was almost completely deserted and still, unsurprising for a Sunday morning in the height of winter, but it wasn’t comforting.  Steve never trusted stillness to last anymore.

They entered the tower through a metal service door that clicked open automatically at their approach.  As they stepped into the wide, heated hallway, the doors to their right slid open with a ding to reveal an empty elevator.

Steve shot Clint a curious look.  “Tony likes his tech,” Clint explained, “so just assume everything’s automatic.  Probably the only things he can’t control remotely in this building are the people.”

“…Okay,” Steve said, following Clint into the elevator.  “Thanks for the warning.” 

“No problem, bro,” Clint said, leaning against the elevator wall.  “You do _not_ want to relive my experience using one of his toilets.”

Steve huffed a laugh, but his smile quickly faded.  Although he didn’t show it, he was nervous.  More nervous about meeting Stark than about facing Hydra, truthfully, and as he stood in the elevator, he couldn’t shake the nerves.

Clint had offered to introduce him to Tony months ago, but he’d politely declined.  At the time, he hadn’t known why exactly he didn’t want to meet the man.  It had taken some time for him to begin to understand why.  Much later, he realized that he wanted to avoid ties to his past as much as possible, and meeting Tony Stark would do the opposite.  He couldn’t imagine Stark seeing him as anything other than the Captain.

The strange martyrdom he’d witnessed that people still associated with Captain America made his skin crawl, if he was honest with himself.  He’d known dozens of men who made bigger sacrifices for their country than he ever did and their names were lost to time, to all but their descendants.  But with Captain America, there had been trading cards.  Comic books.  Hollywood _movies_ , coming out even long after his supposed death.  History had built the memory of Captain America into something warped, idealized, and unreal.  Something that Steve would never, and could never be.

When the elevator reached its destination, a shorter, dark-haired man was waiting in the hallway to greet them.  Steve recognized Tony Stark from the pictures he’d seen of him, but he couldn’t see much resemblance to Howard.  Maybe just in the eyes.  The eyes, and the attitude.

“You look like shit,” Tony said, going up to Clint and clasping his shoulder in greeting with one hand.  He held a coffee mug in the other.  “Got any Hydra goons for me to blow up?”

“Good to see you too, Stark,” Clint replied with a grin.  “And yeah, it’s likely they’ll come here looking.  Thanks for letting us come here.”

“Mi casa es su casa,” Stark said, waving his hand dismissively before turning to glance curiously at Steve, who was standing a little bit behind Clint.  “Who’s Captain America over here?”

“He actually _is_ Captain America, Tony,” Clint said. 

Steve sighed inwardly.

“ _Was_ Captain America,” he corrected, extending a hand for Tony to shake. His lips quirked in an attempt to mask his unease.  “Steve Rogers.  Nice to meet you.”

Tony blinked at the hand.  “You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Clint said, stifling a yawn.  “Freshly thawed from Arctic ice.”

Tony’s eyes roamed over Steve’s face, scrutinizing him.  “Captain America.  World War Two super-soldier.  Seriously?  I was joking, calling you that.”  He looked between Steve and Clint as if trying to piece it all together, his mouth slightly open.  Steve dropped his hand awkwardly when it was clear Tony wasn’t planning to shake it.  “Seriously.  Help me out here.”

“SHIELD found him in the ice a couple years ago, kept it quiet.  Shit hit the fan with Hydra and everything.  Stuff happened.  We’re neighbors now,” Clint summarized, then sniffed the air, eyes widening.  His attention turned to the mug in Tony’s hand, noticing it for the first time.  “Is that coffee?  Please tell me you have more coffee, Tony.  I need coffee.”

“It’s been a long night,” Steve explained.  “Do you have a place where we can sit down?”

“With coffee?” Clint added hopefully.

 

They explained the details of Clint’s run-in with Hydra as well as the rudiments of Steve’s rescue from the Arctic over coffee in Tony’s lab.  Stark asked the occasional question, but for the most part he kept quiet, taking it all in.  The more they explained, the less confused Tony looked, until his initial bewilderment and disbelief was replaced by a thoughtful glint in his eye.  By the time they were finished explaining, he was frowning.

“I don’t like coincidences,” he began, drumming his fingers on the table.  “Actually, technically, I don’t believe in them, and there’s two things here that seem awfully coincidental to me.  First off, yesterday was the first time you’ve had a run-in with Hydra in months, right?”

“Yeah, ‘bout three, three and a half months.  Hadn’t seen them since I hit up the base in Calgary.” 

“Crazy coincidence is, yesterday a guy shows up at my lab asking for my help with something.”  Tony folded his hands, glancing between Clint and Steve, waiting to gauge their reactions.  “The guy’s the Winter Soldier.”

“No fuckin’ way,” Clint said immediately.

After a beat, Steve asked, “Who’s the Winter Soldier?”

“Fist of Hydra,” Clint explained.  “An assassin, but a ghost, practically.  Has a metal arm.  He’s been taking out targets since the ‘50s.  Natasha’s one of the few people to see him in action and _survive_ it, and that’s just because she wasn’t his primary target.  There is no fucking way that was him, Tony.  If he were here, you’d be dead or critical.”

“Yeah, but it _was_ him.  I had Tasha verify it for me.”  Tony crossed his arms.  “Dude looks 35, max.”  Clint snorted in disbelief.

“You said he wanted your help?”  Steve cut in, a frown creasing his brow.  “With what?”

“He wanted me to remove his metal arm.”

Clint blinked at Tony.  “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope.”

“How did he react when you said no?”

“Who says I said no?”

“ _Tony_.  Tell me you didn’t agree to help one of the deadliest _Hydra_ assassins on the planet.”

“I cannot tell a lie.  Well, I can, but that’d be pointless.  Look, Clint.  Why the hell would I give up the chance to disarm one of Hydra’s greatest hits?”  He snickered at his own joke.  “Dis- _arm_.  Sweet.  Anyway, regardless of whether or not I actually end up helping him, it’s better to have him here where I can keep an eye on him.”

“He’s in the building?” Clint asked incredulously.  “We came here to escape Hydra, not to chill in a tower with them.”

“When I got your call, I had him escorted to a safe room, which he went to willingly.  Because, yeah.  I doubt it’s a coincidence that he shows up and Hydra strikes on the same day.  But on the plus side, he’s here, locked up tight in the tower, instead of on the outside trying to kill us.  And it’s worth noting that before I locked him up, he seemed reformed.  Anti-Hydra reformed.  Claims to have taken down a bunch of their bases, and the ones he gave me specifics on checked out as the destroyed bases you _didn’t_ take down.  Sure it could be an elaborate ploy, but from what I gather, the Winter Soldier’s not a spy, or a precision weapon.  He’s more of an Atom bomb.”

“Okay,” Clint said, nodding slowly in concession.  “Fine.  Whatever.  Do you have a visual on him?”

“ _Do I have a visual on him_ ,” Tony repeated under his breath teasingly.  “Is the Pope Catholic?”

Clint rolled his eyes.  “You feel like showing us the visual?”

“Just a sec,” Tony said, turning to look at Steve.  “I said there were two coincidences, didn’t I?”

Steve nodded warily, waiting.  Something in Tony’s expression put him on edge.

“He didn’t introduce himself as the Winter Soldier,” Tony began slowly, watching Steve’s expression closely.  “He gave a name, not to me but to Natasha.  James Barnes.  And I’m not kidding when I say he looks exactly like the unkempt, cybernetic version of your old pal Bucky Barnes.”

“That’s impossible,” Steve said, even as his heart pounded wildly against his ribs.  “Bucky died.  I saw him fall.”

“I’m not saying it’s him,” Tony said, meeting his eyes, “but I’ve seen pictures, and the two look the same.  It’s one hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?”

An uncomfortable silence stretched out, settling heavily over the lab.  Finally, Steve broke it, asking, “Could you show him to me on the video feed?”

“Sure,” Tony said.  “JARVIS, pull up the feed of Barnes, will you?”  Steve looked around, trying to see who Tony was speaking to, but there was no one else in the room.

“Of course, sir,” came the slightly computerized-sounding reply from a speaker in the ceiling.  Steve glanced at Clint, who raised an eyebrow and smirked.  _I told you so._

There was a screen suspended on a nearby wall that silently lit up.  The camera that the feed was streaming from must have been mounted to the ceiling, because a bird’s-eye view of the room was visible.  The Soldier, a shadow in the bright room, sat on the floor with his knees to his chest despite the two chairs in the room.  His dark-haired head was down and his face was in his hands.  The metal of his left hand caught the fluorescent lighting.

Steve stared at the screen, trying to make out anything familiar or unfamiliar about the man, but he couldn’t see him clearly enough to feel much of anything apart from confusion and curiosity.  Clint and Tony were looking at Steve, waiting for his reaction, and he shook his head. 

“I can’t tell if it’s him.  Why’s he sitting like that?  Is he injured?”  He couldn’t tell for sure, but from his shoulders, it looked like the man’s breathing was rapid and uneven.  For a moment, he thought the man might be crying, but he shook his head inwardly at the thought.

“Last I saw, he was fine,” Tony said.  “J?  Anything happen to him since I last saw him?”

“No, sir.  Mr. Barnes began displaying symptoms of distress shortly upon entering the room, but no external cause has been determined.  He appears to be hyperventilating.”

“He’s faking it,” Clint declared.  “This guy’s assassinated dozens of people that we know of, and probably dozens more that we don’t.  He probably wants one of us to show up in the room so he can attack us.”

“Either that or he’s really panicking,” Tony said thoughtfully.  “Any sign of Hydra yet, JARVIS?”

“No attempts have been made to crack my systems, and nothing suspicious has appeared on any of the external camera feeds, Sir.”

“Fab.  I’m gonna go talk to him, see if he’s okay,” Tony announced, rising to his feet.

“Tony, no.  That’s probably exactly what he wants,” Clint objected.

“To talk to me?” Tony asked, deliberately being obtuse.  “Most people want to talk to me.  I have a scintillating wit.”

Clint shook his head tightly.  “Tony, I don’t think you really understand how _dangerous_ this guy is.”

“He’s been taking out Hydra bases, so he can’t be all bad.  And I was alone with him before you called, and he didn’t try anything then.”

“How sure are you it was actually _him_ taking out those bases?”

“99.973 percent sure, if I’m remembering JARVIS’s calculations right.”

JARVIS confirmed it with a smooth, “You are, Sir.”

Clint’s glare didn’t waver.  “That doesn’t mean he’s not unstable or dangerous.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s gonna shoot me in the face, either,” Tony said flippantly.

“I’ll go,” Steve heard himself offer.  “I can probably take him in a fight, if it comes to that.”  Not to mention that it would satisfy his curiosity.  It couldn’t be Bucky, but he had to know for sure.  There was no way to know for sure without seeing him.

“Also no way,” Clint said, crossing his arms.  “No offense, Steve, but if he looks just like your old war buddy, you might be off your game if he attacks.  You don’t know how dangerous he is.”  His chair scraped the floor as he stood.  “I’m going.”

“That’s a terrible idea.  You’re injured,” Tony said, glaring right back at him.

“Clint—” Steve began.

“—Nope,” Clint said, cutting him off with a raised eyebrow.  “If anyone’s going, it’s me.  One, I can handle myself, and two, I’m the most unbiased,” Clint said, looking between Tony and Steve defiantly.  “I can go there, see if he’s okay without losing my objectivity, ask him a few questions about Hydra, and find out just how bad an idea letting him in here was.”

Steve didn’t press it since he knew the least about the Soldier out of any of them, but Tony did, opening his mouth for another retort.  As Clint and Tony argued, Steve tuned them out and frowned back up at the television, looking at the curled-up man in the empty room.  On the screen, he looked too small to be a threat, though Steve knew it was just the camera’s illusion. 

Even as his eyes scrutinized the figure for any glimpse of familiarity, he didn’t let himself hope that it might be Bucky.  He remembered the speeding train, the barren white snow, the howl of the wind.  The look in Bucky’s eyes as he fell. 

He wondered what would lead a person to take on the identity of a long-dead soldier.  What Hydra could gain from a lie like that?  If they were somehow trying to compromise Steve, they were going about it in a really strange way.

It took him a minute to realize Clint and Tony had stopped arguing and were talking normally again. 

“So the EMP embedded in the ceiling should be strong enough to short out the arm temporarily,” Tony was saying.  “and I can access it remotely the second things seem fishy.”

“Great.  And then I’ll just have to worry about not getting killed for another— what, minute and a half?— ‘til you can get me out?” Clint asked.

Steve was about to ask whether they decided that Clint was going, but he shut his mouth, not wanting to alert either of them to his inattention. 

“Yep.  But he’s unarmed,” Tony said.  “Pun not intended, but hey, _bonus_.  I mean, you’re a fan of the whole Robin Hood, bow and arrow, Renaissance fair sorta thing, but you can still hold your own in a fist fight, right?”

Clint rolled his eyes and grabbed the comm off the counter, so Steve assumed that Clint was, in fact, going.  “Thanks for your faith, Tony.  Hey, Steve?”

“Yeah?”

“If I don’t make it back alive, tell Tony ‘I told you so,’ will you?”

Steve cracked a smile.  “Will do, Clint.”

 

 

For a moment after Clint left the lab, it was quiet.  Steve went back to watching the man on the screen and Tony watched Steve, both in silence.

Steve didn’t like any of this.  He’d always preferred clear-cut, known threats to unknown ones, and he had no point of reference for how dangerous the Winter Soldier might be.  Gazing up at the screen, he wished it were him instead of Clint going to see the Soldier.  At least then he wouldn’t be waiting helplessly, watching things unfold from another room.

Lost in his thoughts, he was startled when Tony spoke.

“My dad made a lot of weapons,” he began slowly.  His tone was frank, but thoughtful.  “He made a lotta things that probably made things worse off than they would’ve been otherwise.  I stopped agreeing with most of the crap he did a while back.  But you?  His help with Project Rebirth was one of the few things I always admired him for.  So, ah, I wanted to say thanks.  For your service.”

Steve blinked in surprise.  After his first impression of the man, he hadn’t expected Tony to say anything like that, and he was caught off guard.  Finally, he nodded his head slightly and said haltingly, “Thanks to Howard, I was able to help my country and some people I cared about in a way I never thought I could.  I’ll always be grateful for having been given the chance.”

Tony half-smiled, but an awkward silence blossomed between the two.  After a pause, he clapped his hands together, breaking the silence.  “Great, now that _feelings_ are out of the way, I’ve got a question or you.  That story about Peggy Carter walking into the Howling Commandos having a drinking contest.  _Tell_ me it’s true.”

Steve chuckled and began telling Tony all about the night Dernier quit drinking for good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. I figured I should warn you that I don't have a beta reader or anything since this is my first real fic, so if you see a mistake, blame me. And also please point it out to me!
> 
> P.S. Forgive the awful arm pun(s). I am weak.


	6. In Darkness

It was getting harder and harder for James to breathe. 

The room was small and windowless, like any number of the other cells he’d been held in in the past.  The door, which had closed automatically upon his entering, was a foot thick and solid steel, meeting the wall seamlessly.  It was the only possible exit to the room, apart from an air vent on the high ceiling. 

James kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling vent, convincing himself that he could leave through it if necessary.  It was higher than he could reach unassisted, but if he unbolted a chair from the ground and put it on the table, he could climb up and access it.  Formulating an escape plan helped.  It made him feel like he had an easy out.

The hard part was not taking that out.

He was trying hard to give Tony the benefit of the doubt.   Hawkeye was in trouble, he guessed, and Tony probably had to help, and James was a stranger who couldn’t be trusted in his lab unsupervised.  But the rationalization hardly helped the fact that he was alone in a cell that he’d willingly agreed to enter.

_How the hell am I willingly letting myself become a prisoner again?_

 

The room was too hot.  He paced the brief length of it, trying to ignore the way his chest was constricting and the walls were seemingly closing in.  There was a vent on the ceiling.  He wouldn’t let himself be taken against his will again. 

But there was a tremor in his right hand, one he couldn’t stop, and the metal chairs by the table were morphing into the chair Hydra would use to erase him, and he found himself pressing his back to the wall and sinking to the floor, squeezing shut his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, struggling to fill his lungs. 

He could feel the panic encroaching, irrational and intense.  Another part of him distantly watched his own panic and wondered when he’d gotten so weak.  On the scale of bad situations he’d been in, this hardly registered.  But somehow, it didn’t make his breathing any easier.

A knock sounded at the door.

He stood quickly— too quickly— and had to blink away the blackness edging his vision, putting a hand to the wall to steady himself as the door opened and closed.  As the darkness rapidly faded, the figure of a blond man standing just inside the door became clear. 

His face was battered and bruised, sporting a broken nose and numerous cuts.  He wore black reinforced tactical gear with purple accents, but he appeared to be unarmed.  He wore a comm in one ear and a hearing aid in the other.

James didn’t recognize him.  “Who are you?” he asked, forcing the words to come out strong instead of shaky as he tried to get a handle on his breathing.  “Where’s Stark?”

“Tony’s in his lab,” the man said.  “I’m here to ask you some questions.”  His tone was even, but James could tell how forced it was by the tightness around the other man’s mouth.  Taking a seat at the chair closer to the door, the man gestured for James to do the same.  “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” James said tightly before reluctantly taking the seat across from the man.  Crossing his arms to hide his shakiness, he repeated, “Who are you?”

“Clint Barton, codename Hawkeye.  And they tell me you’re the Winter Solider.  But tell me,” the man said, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the table.  “Who is the Winter Soldier, really?”

“Did Tony ask you to talk to me?” James asked.  “I’ve already spoken to him and the Black Widow about who I am and what I’m after.  I thought he and I had an agreement.”  The panic from earlier was quickly turning into irritation, and he didn’t bother trying to hide the terseness in his voice. 

“I asked to talk to you.”

“Why?” James asked flatly.

Barton didn’t answer.  Instead, he asked, “Why did you tell Romanoff your name is James Barnes?”

“Why did you tell me yours is Clint Barton?” James asked in reply.

Barton gritted his teeth.  “Where are you from?”

“My mother, same as anyone,” retorted James, not missing a beat.  “Why are you interrogating me?”

“I need to know the truth about you,” Barton said, frustration edging his words.  Underneath the cuts and the bruises, the man looked exhausted.  James would have been sympathetic if he weren’t so pissed.  “Who are you to Hydra?”

“Their enemy _._ ”

“ _Why_?” Barton asked, almost shouting.  “You’ve done more for them than anyone.  What the hell changed?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” James said, working his jaw and looking away.  His gaze fell on the clean beige tile of the floor.  There was a beat of silence before he continued.

“You know what, actually?  I don’t owe you anything,” James said, meeting Barton’s eyes again as he stood.  “If Stark wants me to answer your questions, he can come down here and ask them to me himself.  I’m done being interrogated.”

Clint exhaled sharply as James walked to the other side of the room, but he didn’t get up.  From his stance across the room, James could hear a staticky voice come through the comm in Barton’s ear, but he couldn’t make out the words.  Barton listened intently, head cocked slightly.  After a minute the voice stopped, and he said to James, “I need to know why you look exactly like Bucky Barnes.”

James took a breath.  “Why do you need to know?” he asked, keeping his voice free of inflection.  His fingernails were digging into his palm.  If they were longer, they’d be drawing blood.

“I can’t tell you that,” Barton said.

“Then it’s none of your damn business.”

Clint rose to his feet with a quiet sigh.  “Fine.  I’m leaving.”

Before James could respond, the lights cut out, plunging the room into pitch darkness.

Immediately, James stilled, straining his ears.  He could hear his own heart thundering in his ears, and faintly beyond that, Clint’s, also racing.  The door hadn’t opened, so they were alone in the room. 

Judging by the frantic pace of Barton’s heart, this wasn’t planned.  At least not by him.  Probably not by Stark, either; the comm in Barton’s ear was dead silent.

Silently, James walked to where he knew the door to be, and pressed his ear to the metal.

He couldn’t make out anyone approaching and he didn’t hear the elevator moving, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be coming soon.

“Barton,” he said, voice low.  “Stark didn’t plan this, did he?”

Clint didn’t answer.  James could hear him swallow.

“Clint,” he tried again softly this time, but urgently.  “I’m not going to try anything.  Unless you attack me first, I’m not gonna hurt you.  I know where you are; I can hear your heartbeat.  Not talking isn’t going to help.  What’s happening?”

No answer, just a long pause, heavy in the impenetrable darkness. 

Running out of options, James reached for his phone, digging it out of his pocket and turning on the screen.  The faint, white-blue light didn’t do much to dispel the thick darkness, but it was something.  He pointed the screen to the ground, eyes seeking in the darkness for where he knew Clint stood.  It didn’t light up the room or keep the shadows at bay, but it showed Hawkeye exactly where he stood, a beacon.  A show of peace.

“I’m right here.  No sneak-attacks.”  Even as he spoke, his ears strained for any sign of what was happening outside their room.  He couldn’t hear anything, and without the buzz of the electricity, it was eerily silent; it felt like the calm before the storm.

“Tony didn’t do this,” Clint finally said.  “It’s Hydra.  They were after me before I came here.”

“Hydra’s been silent for months,” James said, not challenging but probing.  “The last base I knew of was shut down in Calgary about three months ago.  That was you, right?”

“Right.  No sign since, until yesterday.”

“God damn them.”  Coming out of James’s mouth, the common curse sounded uncommonly heartfelt.  “Wait.”  He pressed his ear back to the door.  “An elevator’s coming up.  That has to be them, right?”

“If they shut off the rest of the power, it’s them.”

“Got a way out of this room?  Key or something?”

“No.  Nothing.”

James shook his head decisively.  “We’ve got to get out of here.  We wait here, we’re sitting ducks.  Your comm working?”

“Would’ve used it by now if it were.”

“No phone signal either,” James said, glancing at the screen.  “We take the vent, then, unless you’ve got a better option?”

Clint was silent, so he aimed his lit phone screen at the nearest chair and got to work.  Using the faint light to see, he knelt, and with a tug on each leg with his metal arm, he freed it from the bolts.  He set the chair on the table before handing the lit phone to Clint.

“Could you hold this and angle it up?  I need to see the ceiling”

Clint hesitated, but took it without comment.  As James reached up to yank off the vent cover, he heard the faint but unmistakable sound of the elevator dinging its arrival. 

“Elevator’s here,” he told Clint, setting the vent cover on the table.  “You want to go first or should I?”

“I will.” 

He took the phone back and illuminated the ceiling for Clint before pocketing it, stepping out of the way as Clint jumped from the makeshift platform and pulled himself into the ceiling.  He was just feeling around for the edges of the vent when the lights suddenly flickered on.  

The room was blindingly bright, but at least he could see.  Taking advantage of the visibility in the too-bright light, he jumped up and grabbed the edge, starting to pull himself up.

In the next instant, he felt a charge through the air and a prickle in his left shoulder.  That was all the warning he got before the plates of his cybernetic arm went crazy, shifting and jerking uncontrollably.  Before he could tighten the grip of his right hand to compensate, the fingers of his left hand jolted wildly against the edge of the vent and he lost his balance, toppling off the chair and striking his head on the corner of the table on his way down.  The fall seemed to last a lifetime but was over in an instant.

He groaned in pain, blinded by the light and disoriented by the fall.  His eyes watered against the brightness.

“Barnes?” he could hear a voice calling.  For a second he couldn’t place it, then the disorientation cleared and he pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the table for support with his right hand.  His metal arm wasn’t moving anymore, not spasming and not responding to what he wanted it to do, either.  He could feel a trickle of blood tracing its way down his forehead to his jaw.

“I’m coming,” he told Clint.  He was barely steady enough on his feet as he climbed the table and chair.  Leveraging himself into the narrow vent with just one functioning arm was tricky but he managed, wedging his right knee up and using it to push himself up and into the air duct.  Clint, a yard ahead of him, spared James a glance before starting down the duct, but in the shadowy tunnel James couldn’t make out his expression.  He started to crawl and James followed.

 

Noise traveled strangely in the ducts.  Snippets of sounds— hushed orders, rapid footfalls, and heavy breathing— wafted through the vents, echoing and difficult to place.  James was hyperaware of the sounds of their crawling.  Barton was near-silent, clearly skilled at this type of infiltration.  James, with his unresponsive arm dragging down his left side, winced every time it caught against the metal of the duct and clanged.

Clint led the way, taking turns without hesitation, and James barely managed to keep pace.  He didn’t stop to ask where Clint was headed, and Clint didn’t stop to explain.  The discordant noises loudened.

After some long minutes of silent crawling, they reached an intersection, a wide convergence of four vents where the ducts widened.  The only sources of light were where it occasionally spilled in from the vents below and above.  Clint paused ahead of him for a moment, signaling James to stop and pressing his fingers to the comm on his ear. 

James could just barely hear Tony’s voice through the quiet static, but the only words he could discern were Hydra, and Barnes. 

“I need you to wait here,” Clint said, voice just above a whisper, turning back to look at James.  “Okay?”

“Okay,” James said at the same volume.  He’d treat Clint’s order he way he used to treat Steve’s orders back in the war; he’d follow them until he started disagreeing with them, and then he’d make his own decision.

He waited as Clint turned to the right and dropped through the second vent.  Once Clint dropped out of sight, James didn’t hesitate, crawling over to the vent Clint exited through and peering over the edge. 

Red emergency lights flashed in the hallway where Clint stood.  He was looking down the hallway, holding a knife in his hand he must’ve been concealing in a boot.  Waiting.  From James’s perspective nothing beyond three feet ahead of Clint was visible, but he heard footsteps.  Loud ones, followed by shouted orders and scuffling.  Clint took a few steps forward and disappeared from James’s sight.

Then gunshots.

James didn’t bother to wait and listen any longer.  He dropped from the vent, taking in the Hydra agents crowding the hallway as he landed in a crouch.  There were seven of them in matching gray tactical armor, armed with assault rifles that swung to aim at him.

_What the hell had Clint been thinking, asking him to stay behind?_

Jerking to the right to dodge the first volley of bullets, James used the wall as a stepping stool to leap at the nearest agent, pinning her neck beneath his boot as she dropped to the ground.  She went down hard and fast, and in the moment before the other agents could aim at him again he crouched, swiping his leg out and knocking the two nearest agents off their feet. 

He couldn’t fire their guns with just one functioning hand but he grabbed the first agent’s gun anyway, using it to bludgeon another agent in the temple until he dropped.  He felt a hand on his shoulder and in one fluid movement, he dropped the gun and threw the agent who’d grabbed him over his shoulder and onto the floor, knocking his breath from his lungs. 

Clint was wrestling over a knife with another agent, the gun on the floor beside them.  James pulled back his fist and knocked out the agent with a solid punch.  Clint hesitated only a fraction of a second before tossing him the knife.

There were two still standing and another getting up, but with Clint behind a gun and James with a knife, they didn’t last another minute.  The agents dropped to the floor and they stayed down. 

When it was over, Clint fell back against the wall, panting.

“Thanks,” Clint said between breaths of air. 

“You’re welcome,” James said, trying to flex his metal fingers as Clint caught his breath.  They digits receiving some signals now, but there was a delay of about two seconds, which meant he couldn’t rely on it in a fight.  He clenched and unclenched the fist, trying to bring it back to life.

“I could’ve handled it,” Clint added when his breathing evened.  “But thanks.”  For the first time since they met, his voice held some warmth.

“Those bruises… they’re evidence of your ‘handling’ Hydra, I’m guessing?” James asked, testing the waters.

“Hey,” Clint protested.  “I totally handled it.  There were _six_ of them.”

“Uh huh,” James said, but he couldn’t help the smirk that started to spread on his face.

“There _were_.”

“I never said there weren’t,” James said, lifting his hands in mock surrender.  He was pleasantly surprised when his left hand raised smoothly and without delay.

“They had me in a speeding van on a busy highway with _five guns_ aimed at me, and I made it out without any major injury.  I was only armed with a knife!”

“That’s… something,” James said, but he was grinning now. 

Clint threw James a long look.  “You know, you were a lot scarier before you opened your mouth.”

James only grinned wider, inordinately pleased to have Clint bickering with him instead of accusing him. 

Clint rolled his eyes and pushed off the wall, taking a few increasingly steady steps down the hall.  “Come on.  There’s probably more Hydra agents where these came from.”

“Cut off one head…” James muttered, no longer grinning.  Stepping past the fallen Hydra agents to follow Clint down the hall, he heard Clint mutter in reply:

“Don’t even start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metaphorical kudos to me for STILL WRITING THIS. Words are actually coming out of me and it's really neat. If you have anything to say about this, please please please comment.


	7. Out of Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a whole fudgin' year and a half since I updated this, but ya gurl's made progress.  
> Please please please comment to encourage me on this.

Steve Rogers was a man of convictions. 

His beliefs and morals were clear-cut and unyielding to external influence, and he followed them every step of the way.  Moreover, he had a way of conveying those beliefs so earnestly and powerfully that it left little to no room for argument. 

It’s the reason “Captain America” ever became something more than a gimmick in a dance show; it’s why some of the bravest, most skilled soldiers in the second World War were willing to follow a star-spangled man in tights with no previous combat experience into the jaws of death— and back out again.

It’s also why when Steve said, “That’s Bucky,” Tony didn’t ask if he was sure.  It was the first time he really _recognized_ the Captain America in Steve Rogers’s voice, and he suddenly understood why his dad had never stopped searching for the man.  Uncharacteristically, Tony didn’t have a quip or comment to respond with, so he just kept his mouth shut and looked at the screen.

Barnes was sitting in one of the two chairs in the cell and looking shakier and more disheveled than earlier, hardly resembling the charming war hero Tony had seen in pictures growing up.  The mental picture of Bucky Barnes Tony could conjure up had a lazy smirk, slicked back hair and 40’s fashion sensibilities.  But, Tony supposed, Steve had seen the guy everywhere from trenches to back alleys to HYDRA captivity, so what was a little stubble and a metal arm between friends?

Not that Tony was certain that the Winter Soldier was, in fact, Bucky Barnes.  Or even that James was the Winter Soldier, for that matter.  He just knew that _Steve_ was certain he was Bucky Barnes.  And he couldn’t argue.

Clint was doing awfully, though, with the questioning.  It was like he’d never interrogated anyone before, starting off with the hard questions and losing his temper almost immediately.  Tony had only seen Clint tag-teaming interrogations before, never alone.  He always played the good cop to Natasha’s bad cop, a warm, casual counterpart to Natasha’s cold aggression.  As _cranky_ cop, he wasn’t doing so well.

“Clint need a nap or something?” Tony asked, and Steve winced.

“He didn’t get any sleep last night.”

Over the comm, they both heard Clint snap at Barnes, almost shouting.  James’s response was to close himself off to further questioning, leaving the table and walking across the room.

“Well, this clearly isn’t working,” Tony declared after a beat of watching the screen.  He typed something into a keyboard with a flourish.  “I’m putting us on with Clint—in the comm, so Barnes won’t be able to hear us.” 

Steve nodded as Tony hit a final key.  They could see Clint cocking his head slightly on the screen as the static sound changed.

“Barton?  It’s Tony.  Your interrogation really sucks.”

Clint rolled his eyes at the camera but didn’t respond out loud, probably not wanting to alert Barnes of their conversation.

Before Tony could talk more, Steve opened his mouth.  “Clint, if you can… just ask him why he looks like Bucky Barnes, okay?  Get out of there if he doesn’t answer— like Tony said, this isn’t working.”  Steve cut a glance at Tony, who shrugged in agreement.  It wasn’t working, and Clint was probably doing more harm than good in there.

Clint gave a slight nod at Steve’s words, then asked Barnes the question.

“Why do you need to know?” James asked.

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Then it’s none of your damn business.”

Tony was a little disappointed by the non-answer, if unsurprised.  Steve, though?  His eyes were glued to the screen, drinking in the image of the Winter Soldier like it was water in a desert.  Tony began wondering about potential psychological consequences of the resurrection of a nonagenarian super-solider’s dead best friend.

“That’s him,” Steve repeated firmly.

Then the lights went out.

 

“Hydra,” Tony breathed, already jogging to a control panel in a nearby wall.  Emergency strip-lighting guided the way as he keyed something in and flipped a couple switches, triggering a brief burst of static noise.

“JARVIS, you with me, buddy?”

“Yes, sir.  Hijackers are on levels zero through four, 23 in total.  They have de-activated Generator 1 and are attempting to cut the connections of Generator 2.  They appear to be attempting to power the Northeast elevator with their own portable generator to reach upper floors.”

“Start Cobalt Protocol.  Any more coming in, or is it just the 23?”

“Tower doors are sealed and no suspicious vehicles with individuals inside are in close enough proximity to be of threat, sir.”

“And SI employees?”

“Those who have not made contact with hijackers have been directed to secure locations.  However, two are being held hostage in a supply closet on level three.”

“I’m going down,” Steve interjected.  “How do I get to them?”

“The most strategic entry point would be the maintenance elevator in the southwest corridor.”

Steve was gone before the last syllable. 

“So it’s just you and me, huh, JARVIS?”  Tony muttered, suiting up as the lights flickered on again.  He pulled up a live map of the building, scanning for the locations of the Hydra agents, and started strategizing. 

 

Steve tore through the tower faster than he thought he cold, mind racing along the way.  Hostages first, then the generators, then Tony.  Clint could hold his own against Hydra, even in his current state, and Steve instinctually trusted Bucky to watch Clint’s back.  Whatever he’d been through.  The elevator, though faster than any he’d ever been in, was slow enough to set his teeth on edge.  When the door opened on the third floor he was out like a bat out of hell.

They were in a dimly-lit supply closet and he dropped to a crouch, reaching behind the nearest hostage’s gag to untie it.  “Here to help,” he breathed, fingers catching on the knot.  The second he got the gag off, though, the man gasped a warning that froze him.

“They set a bomb.  Four minute timer.  Couple minutes ago.”

“Where?” 

“Lobby desk.”

“On it,” Steve got out, unthinkingly turning and running.  He didn’t know how to disable a bomb, but he’d sure as hell try. 

He sprinted for the same maintenance elevator to get down to the first floor, but JARVIS stilled him in his tracks in the next instant.

“Captain, I have disabled the bomb wirelessly and is no longer a threat.”

“Thanks, JARVIS,” Steve panted, turning on his heel and feeling foolish.  He darted back towards the hostages to finish freeing them, but movement across the hall caught his eye. 

Three figures in dark tactical gear, backs turned to him.  He flung his shield ahead of him, aimed for their legs.  Two crumpled and the third turned, firing off a volley in Steve’s direction but Steve was faster, twisting away from the shots and jumping up for a kick.  The gun was out of the third’s hands and three yards away in the next instant, just as one of the downed agents yanked on Steve’s other ankle and tried to pull him to the ground. 

Off-balance, he fell, but not before wrapping his arm around the standing agent’s neck and bringing her down with him, falling on and knocking the wind out of the agent who tripped him. 

He ended the fight unglamourously, punching and elbowing the downed Hydra agents until they stayed down.  He hovered over them, panting slightly and, despite himself, fighting back a smile.  It wasn’t appropriate, but _god,_ he’d missed the adrenaline and pushing his body to its limit, and if anyone deserved it it was Hydra.  The moment passed and he was back on track, dragging their unconscious bodies into the nearest room JARVIS could lock up and jogging back to the supply closet, stopping to grab his shield and the Hydra agents’ guns on the way.

“Bomb’s been taken care of” was the first thing he said when he entered the closet, and he saw the panic in the hostages’ eyes dissolve.

“Thank god,” breathed the man who warned him. 

“Thank JARVIS,” Steve corrected, lips quirked as he cut through the ropes tying his limbs.  “And thank his wireless bomb-disabling.” 

“You are most welcome, Captain,” JARVIS said, volume a bit fainter inside the supply closet than in the hallway. 

Steve helped the second hostage, a woman, out of her bonds and escorted them to the tower’s nearest saferoom, where half a dozen other employees were hunkering down.  Everyone looked alert and remarkably collected, considering the circumstance, and Steve left them with the reassurance that the threat would be cleared soon.  He hoped.  For better or for worse, Steve was great at reassuring people.

From there, Steve made his roundabout way back to the lab, clearing four Hydra agents from the generator room and in the intervening floors on the way.  Tony had reassured him he was equipped to handle any Hydra agents that made it into his lab and Steve believed him.  He’d seen footage of Iron Man in action.  Still, he was no less eager to return for aid.

 

Tony was handling it just fine.  For the most part.  Or, he would have been, alright?  But taking on Hydra in his lab was like waltzing with a bull through a china shop filled with million-dollar vases that he _really didn’t want broken, thanks, they’re only his recently-rebuilt life’s work._   The first couple of unfriendlies had been pretty easy to dispatch but the third snuck up on him and had sprayed some kind of thick, grey substance onto his helmet, blocking his vision and interfering with the heat vision, too— effectively blinding him.  He’d need to analyze it later, come up with a fix for it so it won’t happen again.  But now he was fighting with his faceplate up, trying not to destroy his equipment or his face, and it was seven on one. Fine.

He was holding his own, definitely.  But he also wasn’t incapacitating them, either— just keeping them busy enough not to steal or destroy his tech.  He felt a little out of practice, even under his suit.  His last jaunt as Iron Man was three months ago, since he’d been throwing himself so heavily into the reconstruction of the tower.

Thankfully, Captain America returned to save the day, and the fight turned back in their favor.  He was beautiful to watch, Tony had to admit— fluid with the shield in a way that didn’t show in the old, choppy newsreel footage he’d seen growing up.  Fighting Hydra side by side with Captain America.  _Cool_.  The fact that Hydra still existed, and still needed, fighting, less cool.  Still, that was one dream actualized.  He filed away the thrill of excitement over seeing his childhood hero in action and refocused on the fight. 

Two on seven soon turned into two on four.  Tony turned to blast an agent behind him with a repulsor and found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.  He froze, and then Clint must have arrived, and the agent who’d been aiming a gun at Tony’s head had a new, shiny knife sticking out of his hand.  The agent screamed as Tony stunned him with a blast, and Tony blinked the sweat out of his eyes, trying to catch his breath.  His body needed a second to recover from the low-panic/super-fucking-high-panic/low-panic rollercoaster and he trusted Clint and Steve Rogers to finish the fight.

His eyes landed on the doorway across the room and for a split second, he locked eyes with James.  Guy was frozen in place, shock written across his features, hands hanging loose at his sides.  A crash to Tony’s left as Steve threw a Hydra agent against a now-shattering glass wall and when he looked back, James was gone.

The last agent was incapacitated, and James Barnes was gone.

He slumped back against the wall as his heart stopped sprinting, and exhaled.  Then inhaled. 

“So, what are we actually going to do with all these unconscious Hydra goons?”


End file.
